Fear Is For Mortal Men
by TomParis7
Summary: Sherlock is afraid of heights, he chases a killer, and considers the distance between himself and John. Some JohnLock hints, and SOME ANGST. Post-Richenbach AU where John and Mary don't meet. Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock characters :)


John awoke to the sound of violin wafting sweetly around the flat; he opened his eyes blearily, and felt a smile creep up his lips, despite the nightmare that had just awoken him. It was a mild one, but it still left him in a cold sweat and the words "_Goodbye John." _Were still wafting through his head, tainting his conscious. Shaking himself, John glanced at the clock on his nightstand, and the red letters blared 4:45am. Chuckling to himself, John sat up and stretched, shaking off the last of the nightmare, flipped the covers back and got out of bed. The violin was still weaving its tune as John pulled a jumper over his head and made his way downstairs. The music faltered and stopped as John entered the living room. Sherlock Holmes' silhouette was cast in the hazy beginnings of sun that was rising over the peek. Sherlock seemed to be glowing as he turned around slowly to watch John descend the last couple of stairs.

"John-"

"M-m-morning." John said sleepily through a yawn.

"I woke you." Sherlock said, his voice somewhat small.

"It's fine, I was…" John contemplated on telling Sherlock about the nightmare but decided against it, "I was just getting up anyway."

Sherlock's eyes were scanning John's form, almost instantly seeing through his lie, however he chose not to comment and tucked the violin under his chin once more. He began playing it, louder this time so John had to almost yell over it, saying-

"Is that a new one, Sherlock?"

"Hum-?" Sherlock turned to John, still playing.

"The song, is it new?"

"Oh, yes. I composed it last night." Sherlock replied, turning back to the open window. John stood in the doorway for a bit, watching Sherlock's form sway slightly to the music and found a smile on his lips. He loved watching Sherlock play; the way he wove the music like a sewer uses a needle and thread, the gentle breeze as it tickled his black curls and the hem of his deep blue robe swaying. Plus the light streaming in from the morning sun, casting tiny glowing squares on the floor and his violin and making the flying dust particles visible and dance around the detective. Something about it was so beautiful. Shaking his head, John strode forward and put the kettle on. He pushed some toast into the toaster for Sherlock and himself and then waited for the pot to boil.

The kettle announced itself hot with a high-pitched wail and John took it off the stove to pour the water into two steaming cups. Putting the toast on a plate as well, John headed back into the sitting room where Sherlock had left his violin- abandoned on his chair and was sitting stock still on the couch in his thinking position. John decided to set the tea and toast down on the side table as to not disturb Sherlock's thoughts. But Sherlock's eyes popped open at the sound of the clinking glass on wood and he looked up at John.

"Thank you." Sherlock nodded to John. John paused and flashed a raised eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Come again?"

"I said 'think you' John."

"Why are you being so bloody polite?"

"Don't you remember what today is, John?"

John paused and racked his brain, then he remembered and it was like a punched in the face. Today was May 15th.

John responded with a soft, "oh" and sank into his chair. _How could he have forgotten? _It had been exactly two months today since Sherlock had appeared at Baker Street after 2 years of being "dead". John would sometimes still start when Sherlock would come into the room, not remembering that he was indeed alive and well. There were still nightmares, but overall, he was quite happy with the progress he was making, by adding Sherlock back into his life.

They sat in silence while eating their toast and sipping on tea. John was staring out the window contently, but Sherlock couldn't keep still. He kept drumming his fingers on his leg or tapping his foot in agitation. Sherlock finished his tea, set it down, and ran restless hands through his hair. He stood up so abruptly that John jumped.

"Let's go, John." Sherlock said, grabbing his long black-tailed coat and looking to John. He didn't move.

"Now?"

"Yes now."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bored. I need to find a case." Sherlock mumbled the last bit to himself.

"It's bloody early Sherlock. It's not even 5 yet."

"So?" Sherlock said, looking confused as to why John wasn't as keen on the idea.

"We'll freeze."

"It's May, John, you can bring a coat."

"Where will we go?"

"Oh I don't know, we'll find something." Sherlock implored, nodding to the door.

"But Sherlock-"

Deaf to John's protests, Sherlock marched over to John and pulled him up by the elbow. Sherlock then dragged his flatmate to the door where he grabbed John's musty green coat that was draped over a chair and pulled John's arms through it. John grumbled something about needing sleep but Sherlock was already out the door.

John was met by a gust of wind when he closed the door to Baker Street, it caused him to shiver and pull his coat around himself, masking his body from the cold. Sherlock was some feet away, also wrapped in his coat so he looked like an elongated bat. Sighing, John felt the nipping chill of the cold as he shuffled toward Sherlock, who was already walking down the street at a brisk pace.

"Where are we going?" John asked, jogging to catch up to the detective.

He didn't answer but merely picked up his pace. Sighing, John followed, keeping his head down and averted from the wind. Sherlock and John walked down two blocks in silence; the only sound was of their footfalls on the street and the distant rumble of early morning traffic. They turned onto another street, now facing the rising sun as it made it's ascend into the sky. Shielding his eyes, John followed the detective down another block and through to a shaded area with trees, before asking,

"Can't we just take a cab?"

"Cab's don't go this way." Sherlock said, slowing his pace to match Johns. They walked on, their breath tainting the surrounding air in fog, swirling upward. Sherlock turned right onto another street that crossed a main road. They crossed and Sherlock lead him on a path that lead to a bridge. This bridge, usually jumbled with people and the noises of the interworking of the day, was now completely silent and people-free. There were no noises save the sound of the rushing water as it seeped under the bridge. The water was one that spilled from a boating lake not to far from Baker Street. It made it's gentle trickling sounds as Sherlock lead John onto the bridge and stopped to look at him. John looked around, taking in the crisp morning air then back to Sherlock's who's eyes were on him.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asked, not sounding angry, merely curious.

"You came here often when I was gone." Sherlock didn't pose it as a question, but a simple statement. John felt his heart skip a beat.

"You-" John felt his voice falter, his mind reeling.

"Yes, from that bench. I came here to check on you." Sherlock said, nodding his head to one some 6 feet away. "But I didn't want this place to have a bad context." Sherlock said- leading John over to the indicated bench and sitting, John followed suit.

Sherlock hand fell to the bench beside him. John glanced down at it, contemplating for a moment at grabbing it. He was reaching for it when a shrill ringing went off. Sherlock's hand moved to his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile. He answered it and John cursed whoever was on the other end, at their poor timing.

"We were awake yes. Mumm. I understand. We'll be right over." Sherlock hung up and jumped to his feet. "It was Lestrade. He needs our assistance on a case. First case since I came back John! Lets go!" Sherlock practically skipped toward the bridge once more. John heaved a huge sigh and muttered, "Well I guess the moment's over…" And followed. He felt very bewildered. Why had Sherlock taken him here, for what seemed like an important event just to be swept away again? Didn't he understand that it was taking John longer to adjust back to life with him? It also bewildered John how well adjusted Sherlock was. It was like he had never died and left for three years, but like a day hadn't passed. And now they were back to cases. Sherlock had seemed to hold off on doing any for the first two months, but now he just pulled John with him. John supposed that he would never figure out the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes.

They reached the Yard some 20 minutes later; it was bustling with activity for how early it was. They made their way up to Lestrade's office and were followed by many stares. Many people weren't used to seeing Sherlock's face back at the yard.

"Lestrade, this should be good." Sherlock barged into the room, followed by John, who was limping slightly behind him. Lestrade looked up from his reports scattered on his desk up to the two men before him.

"Ah good, you're here. I'm sorry to call, what with the first case back after…" Lestrade trailed off and looked apologetically at John "but I think we need you. "Please- sit." He motioned to a chair. John sat but Sherlock remained standing and Lestrade shrugged.

"Well, we've got this pretty strange case. This bloke was found dead at the top floor of his apartment. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle."

Lestrade held out the case file for John to take but Sherlock snatched it out of his hands. Lestrade looked to John with raised eyebrows and John shrugged and rolled his eyes.

John had become very fond of Greg over these past years, while his best friend was presumably dead. He had been John's best friend and help thorough this. So the doctor and DI looked on as Sherlock paced back and fourth, scanning the file. He didn't read the entire file but skimmed it and then threw it aside.

"Yes, were is the crime scene?"

"Over on 22nd." Lestrade said.

"Good, we'll take a cab, you'll follow?" And without waiting for a reply, Sherlock swept out of the room his coattail whipping around the corner. "Come on John!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder.

John sighed and got to his feet, somewhat shakily.

"Hey John, hang on." Lestrade looked to the spot where Sherlock had vanished before speaking. "How are you doing mate?"

"You mean since he's back…?" John asked.

"Yeah. Is he treating you alright?"

John raised an eyebrow and chuckled dryly, "He's Sherlock. Treating people with respect isn't really in his handbook."

"Well, yes I know, but John. He needs to know how leaving affected you."

"No he doesn't." John shook his head, "He'll just feel bad about it, and anyway, I don't want to cause an uproar."

"But John-"

"Greg, it's alright. Really. He's just Sherlock, but he's back and that's what matters."

"Are you sure? I mean look at the man. Your still adjusting, if you don't mind me saying, but _him. _He seems perfectly fine."

"I'm not so sure. I think, deep down there he is still affected too…" John said grimly, but he didn't voice what he was thinking, because he would sometimes notice this distant look in Sherlock's eyes that he just couldn't quite place…

"John!" Sherlock pocked his head around the corner, "We don't have all day to sit around and chat." John shrugged at Lestrade as Sherlock took off again, and said, "Yeah, whatever you say, John, but I still think he's mad."

After a twenty minute cab ride, Sherlock and John stepped out of the cab into the sunlight in the street, glairing down at them. John strained his neck upward to find the top of the towering apartment building. It looked to be over 50 floors. Shaking his head, John looked around and found Sherlock already inside, taking to the woman at the front desk. John hurried forward and then stood next to Sherlock, catching his last words to the woman,

"I am with the Inspector, and he will tell you that I am who I say I am. But saying as you have trust issues, after your boyfriend left shows me that you won't easily believe me."

John jumped forward and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him back slightly, apologizing to the woman as she sat there, shock plain on her face. Lestrade walked in minutes later and flashed the woman his badge, she shrugged and let them through. John went to follow when he heard a groan coming from Sherlock that could only mean one thing.

"Anderson. I saw an accident on the way here, was that you?" Sherlock sneered. John lifted an eyebrow as Donovan entered and Sherlock's eyes flicked to her for a moment before going back to Anderson's sneering face.

"Oh no, you were probably too busy snogging Donovan to look at the road. I'm sure your wife will be so pleased."

"Shut your face." Anderson snarled as Donovan scoffed, "Just because you faked your death and think you're all clever doesn't get you can go around saying things. I mean look what you did to John. You broke him, and then came back and expected it to be fine and started dragging him around all of London."

John felt all the blood drain from his face as he looked at Anderson.

"What did you say?" John growled and took a step forward but Sherlock beat him to it. In a flash, Sherlock was inches from Anderson's face, their noses almost touching. Sherlock eyes were dark and his voice nearly came out as a growl as he said, "Don't you ever assume you know what I did or the reasons for it. It is not your place to make those remarks, so stop speaking or I will put a bullet through you."

It was the most frightening thing John had ever seen. Sherlock was breathing heavily and some of his normal tight curls had fallen over his face. His eyes were locked with Anderson's and they looked dark and haunted. Anderson had gone pale and Donovan's mouth was slightly open in surprise. John was shaking from head to foot. The scene seemed to be frozen in time and was only broken by the sound of approaching footfalls, then Lestrade's voice,

"Come on now, we can't wait all day, we-"

He stopped dead as his eyes fell upon the scene. Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Anderson and then to John who was reasonably pale and Donovan who had a look of open-mouthed shock stuck on her face.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade asked wearily.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped away from Anderson, brushed off his dark coat and swept past Lestrade without another word. Anderson took a deep breath and John just shook his head and slowly followed Sherlock to the elevator.

They all filed in, completely silent. Lestrade seemed to feel the tension as he jabbed the very top floor button and the elevator began moving upward. When it dinged at the top, Sherlock got out first and briskly headed down the hallway. John felt a little dizzy but marched past the others to follow his flat mate to the room at the end of the hall that was covered in crime scene tape. Sherlock was already through the door and bent over the body when John entered.

"Sherlock-"

"Hush John. I'm working." Sherlock snapped. John was taken aback, minutes ago Sherlock had threatened to kill a man for making a bad remark about John and now it was like he didn't care. He would never solve the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

John sighed and watched as he worked. Lestrade entered but John noticed he had made Anderson and Donovan wait in the hallway.

"Hey, how's it going in here." Lestrade asked, throwing John a look before focusing on Sherlock.

"Sufficient. I seem to have everything I need. And I haven't lost my touch."

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

"Well what, isn't it obvious?"

John sighed and shrugged at Lestrade, "Not to us, so just… walk us through it." John said wearily.

Sherlock muttered something about dimwitted people before bending down on the body. He began rattling information off, explaining the details of the murder.

"He went out to the balcony for a smoke, Lo Ta, he had good taste." Sherlock headed toward the balcony door and flung it open, walking out. It was a tall building that stood directly opposite The Gherkin. The moment Sherlock stepped onto the balcony John knew there was a problem. His tall, lengthy form had stiffened and he had stopped talking so abruptly, it was as though someone had turned the sound in the room off, apart from the rushing noises of cars far removed.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, taking a step toward him.

He didn't turn around, but just continued to stare downward- gazing upon something neither of them could see.

"Sherlock?" John repeated. He advanced toward Sherlock slowly, as though approaching him to fast would spook him. "You okay?"

Sherlock's hands gripped the edge of the balcony and his legs began to shake slightly. John joined him on the balcony. He looked at the side of Sherlock he could see and saw that he was as pale as a sheet. His mouth was moving but no words were coming out, looking like a fish out of water.

"Sherlock…" John touched Sherlock's arm gently. Sherlock didn't move but continued to stare downward. Then it hit John what was happening; Sherlock was staring down at a memory. He could see the words Sherlock was muttering, 'it's just a trick, just a magic trick' over and over again.

"What's-"

John held his hand to cut off Lestrade's inquiry. Lestrade fell silent and John turned back to his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and clouded.

"Sherlock, listen to me- I am right here. Not down there. I'm right next to you. It's me. Focus on my voice."

Sherlock didn't look over but he began shaking his head vigoursly. "I have to. I have to. _This is my note_."

Sherlock swayed and John put a steadying hand on the small of his back. "Take a step back, Sherlock, look around. Remember where you are, remember _my voice._"

John began gently pushing Sherlock away from the balcony. "I wasn't clever enough." Sherlock muttered, making John's heart lurch. John helped Sherlock to the bed, where Sherlock slowly sank down, the bedsprings creaking slightly.

Lestrade quickly crossed to the doors and closed them, shutting out the balcony view and the accompanying noises.

"Sherlock…?" John began. Sherlock put his head in his hands, gripping his black curls. A sharp knock came at the door. Sherlock didn't move, but both Lestrade and John looked up as Anderson poked his head in.

"If you all don't mind I'd like to take a look at the-" He paused, watching Sherlock's still form.

"OUT." Lestrade yelled.

"No. I'm fine." Came Sherlock's deep vibrato.

The three of them looked to the detective who stood suddenly. John put his hand on Sherlock's arm but he wrenching his arm free from John's grasp.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to…" He trailed off and left the room, pushing past Anderson and down the hall. John glanced at Lestrade whose brow was creased.

"I'm going to-" John pointed to where Sherlock had taken off and followed. He had to run to catch up with Sherlock, but the elevator had closed before he could jump in. John growled in frustration and jabbed the down button several times. He waited impatiently as the elevator made its slow accent. John thought about what Sherlock would do in his state. He shuttered to think what would happen. _Should he call Mycroft? Perhaps it wasn't the right time. _John thought. He would wait until he found his friend and see what kind of state he was in before calling in the Calvary.

The elevator dinged and John jumped inside, pushing the first floor. John tapped his foot, and finally the doors opened. John sprang out and headed toward the exit, his pace brisk. He got out to the street and looked around for any sign of the tall detective. He wasn't anywhere on the street that John could see. He headed off down the street, asking people who went by if they had seen him, none had. John was beginning to panic, wondering if Sherlock may do something rash, when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read a text, glowing on the screen.

Don't look for me. I'm fine.

-SH

John was about to respond when he thought better of it. Sherlock seemed very jumpy at the moment and anything he may say or do could push him further away. John decided to call Mycroft. Dialing his cell, he picked up on the first ring.

"John."

"Hello Mycroft, listen. Sherlock's just had an incident."

"What kind of 'incident'?" Mycroft asked, his tone mildly curious.

John explained what had happened on the balcony and when he was finished, there was no response.

"Did you hear me? We need to help him, find him, do something!" John said, his tone spiked with irritation.

"I don't see why." Mycroft finally responded calmly.

"Don't see… don't see why?" John repeated incrediusuly.

"He said he wanted to be left alone then he should be left alone. Regardless I will have him followed but I believe there is nothing you can do but wait until he returns home."

"Won't he know if you have him followed?"

"My men are… discrete."

"Nothing gets past Sherlock." John muttered, more to himself.

"Go home, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft hung up with a snap leaving John standing on the busy street.

John took a cab, and was silent the whole ride, glancing up at every street they passed. John arrived at Baker Street, feeling hallow. He opened the door and listened for any sounds of his flatmate, but the rooms were silent and Sherlock-free. Crestfallen, John's eyebrows knitted as he made himself a cup of tea, allowing the hot steam to wash over him as he sat down. He didn't drink his tea, but just sat there, cupping it in his hands; often snatching glances at Sherlock's chair, the line in his forehead creased. It was 11am

Twelve am- no sign of him.

One pm- John's tea was cold now.

Two pm- John started pacing. He picked up his phone and his hand hovered over the call button on Sherlock's number, but never pressed it.

A quarter past three- there were now dents in the carpet where his feet had been tracing the same steps over and over again.

4oclock- any time now…

At five-thirty- John called Sherlock. There was no response.

At half past six, there were footsteps on the stairs. John stopped his pacing and whipped around just as the door swung open. Sherlock stood there, drenched in water, and what looked like a mixture of mud and blood.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, bounding forward.

"What?" Sherlock looked slightly startled by John's reaction. He shrugged off his coat with a grimace and walked toward the couch.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" John said, his tone deadly.

"Solving a murder, which you were so impolite not to help. You've been skulking here all afternoon I suppose." Sherlock said, sinking onto the couch, with heavy-lidded eyes and a slightly paler hue than usual.

"Solving a… you were… what?"

"It really was quite simple-"

But before Sherlock could launch into a long-winded explanation of his deductions, his eyes fluttered and he slid off the couch.

"Dammit." John muttered, running forward. He kneeled next to Sherlock on the rug and peeled back his suit jacket to revel a dark red stain growing just under his left ribcage.

"Who did this to you."

"Suspect." Sherlock muttered sleepily.

"He stabbed you?" John voice was slightly panicked but he pulled the sheet from the couch and pressed it to Sherlock's wound and he winced.

"Yes but the knife didn't go that deep, there's no need to-"

"Shut up." John mumbled, trying to think. If he called an ambulance it may take too long to get here in which Sherlock would have already lost too much blood. He could also die if he stayed here and John didn't act soon. Making up his mind, John reached the hand that wasn't holding down the sheet under the couch and pulled out his med kit. He propped it open awkwardly with one hand and riffled inside. He pulled out a long line and a sharp needle.

"Are you going to…" But Sherlock's question was answered as John threaded the needle.

"Take these, they should numb the pain… well sort of." John shook out two pills from a bottle in his med kit and gave them to Sherlock who tried to bat his hand away.

"John." His eyelids fluttered again, "mn'fine" He said, his voice thick with pain.

The army doctor pushed Sherlock into a lying position after forcing him to take the pills, removed the sheet and cut open Sherlock's shirt with a pair of scissors.

"S'ruined." Sherlock mumbled, glancing at his shirt.

"Oh don't be such a child." John snapped, looking at the wound.

It was bleeding freely now that John had removed the sheet, so John began sewing the cut shut, to groaning protests from Sherlock. John's hands didn't shake the entire time he was sewing his friend back together.

He had done a sloppy job of it but knew it would suffice until they reached the hospital. John jumped up and snatched his phone, barely noticing that his hands were speckled with blood. He called an ambulance and rushed back to Sherlock's side, whose breathing was serrated.

"Deep breaths Sherlock. They'll be here soon."

"Did youjust stitch me back together again?" Sherlock asked, a smile sneaking onto his colourless face.

"Shut up you." John said, and more to himself he added, "I thought I'd lost you again."

It took two days, after the detective was admitted for John to give in to sleep; pure exhaustion finally made the decision for him. John slept a few hours on the course-textured couches in the waiting room, before awaking blearily and trudging down to the kitchen to grab some coffee. Massaging his neck, John waited for the cup to brew; his eyes squinted against the harsh artificial light.

"John?" A surprised voice sounded behind him. John turned to see Molly Hooper making her way into the kitchen. She wore her hair tied in the back of her head.

"Mu-Mu-Molly." John yawned.

"You look awful." She said plainly.

"I reckon he looks worse then Sherlock at this point." Said a deeper voice from the doorway. John saw Lestrade saunter in, looking pleased about something.

"Greg." John greeted him. His coffee finally brewed, John filled his cup and took a grateful sip.

"So here's what I know." Lestrade began, his face taking on a more serious look, leaning on the edge of the counter and crossing him arms. "Sherlock goes berserk after being up to high in a building, he scurries out and I don't hear from him or you until I get a call from another DI saying we've got the murder and my best detective is in the hospital. What in the hell was that all about?"

John merely shook his head. He hadn't spoken much the past 48 hours. John soon realized that if he tired to talk, he might hurl so he choose one-word or less responces, just to play it safe.

Sherlock's recovery had been a slow one and John wasn't able to shake the thought that Sherlock would die the moment he left the room. Granted Sherlock was awake and improving rapidly. The doctors had told him that if he hadn't acted when he did, Sherlock would have died. John took some refuge in the idea that Sherlock was alive because of him, yet it still wasn't enough to quell the constant fear of Sherlock's death. It appeared to be stalking him from the shadows, quiet as a fox, but just as lethal.

"How is he?" Molly asked, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Alright." John commented. He walked past a worried-looking Molly and Lestrade who watched him walk away.

Someone was tapping gently on his head. He tried to swat them away but his arms felt heavy and he couldn't move them. The tapping became more persistent and seemed to be inside his brain, like a bird pecking at a window. John moaned and opened his eyes slowly.

"My legs are numb John, if you wouldn't mind-"

John sat up so fast that his head collided with something solid.

"Oof!" A deep voice grunted.

John blinked a few times, rubbing the spot on his head that had collided with (he soon discovered after looking up) Sherlock's head.

Sherlock looked disgruntled and a bit perturbed as he massaged his head.

"Sorry." John said weekly.

He had snuck back into a sleeping Sherlock's room and he must have drifted off to sleep waiting for his flatmate to wake.

Sherlock looked at John imperiously and then his eyes flicked to the morphine drip. John's eyes wandered there too and saw that it was almost empty.

"More painkillers." John said, in response to Sherlock's gaze. He stood, and trying to shake the weariness out of his stiff leg, he walked to the door to find a nurse.

"It'll be Mycroft's doing." Sherlock said, his voice barely audible over the loud beeping of his many monitors.

"What?" John turned.

"My brother thinks I will, for lack of a better term, jump off the wagon if I get to many drugs in my system."

"So he cut your supply?" John asked, incredulous.

"It would appear so." Sherlock said simply, as though it didn't bother nor concern him.

"How much pain are you in?" John questioned.

Sherlock didn't respond but merely gazed out the window, faining indifference. John growled and made to leave the room but Sherlock's next words stopped him.

"I never used to be afraid of heights."

John turned to see Sherlock, still looking out the window, his face unreadable. John took a few paces closer, not knowing how to respond.

"I never used to be afraid of anything. As a kid, I nearly killed myself doing stunts and different experiments. Fear was for mortal men, not the likes of me." Sherlock mumbled, almost as though he was talking to himself. "Looking down at the ground was like gazing into this black abyss, only your face was visible among the smoke. You were pale and scared. The abyss turned into your eyes. Black and cold." He tore his gaze from the window and looked directly into John's.

John was still rooted to the spot, dumbfounded at what he was hearing.

"You have been having nightmares? Well mine have been your eyes. They are distant, as though you are a world away and you never get closer." Sherlock still was looking into John's eyes, as though searching for the distance in which he spoke.

"Sherlock… I."

"I feel as though you are the abyss and the distance is tearing me apart."

"I'm here." John's voice was hushed, "and I'm not going anywhere. The distance is only in your dreams."

Sherlock blinked and looked away, resuming his scrutiny of the window, John's queue to leave.

John left the room and leaned against the door, running through Sherlock's words in his head. John resolutely promised himself that he wouldn't let Sherlock down. He wouldn't be the abyss that Sherlock suffered.

It took some time and a lot of shouting on John's part to persuade Mycroft to put Sherlock back on a morphine drip, but in the end, Mycroft gave in. John suspected the elder Holmes brother was simply tired of saying no to John.

Sherlock looked sleepily and his face was slightly swollen by the drugs being pumped so quickly into his system. As John had suspected, Sherlock was in a great deal of pain, but "managing it" as Sherlock tried to tell John over and over again.

"I should be back at work now, cases and murder!" Sherlock groaned one evening, five days after being checked in.

"No." John said flatly, peering at Sherlock over the top of a medical journal he was perusing entitled, 'How To Spot It: A Diagnosis for Every Ailment'.

"John…"

"What?"

"Bored."

John stared at his flatmate and set the journal down. "Then find something to entertain yourself." He growled through gritted teeth.

"Like working a case." Sherlock made to get out of bed but John stood and push him firmly back onto the covers.

"You are still healing. The doctors say it may take a few more days."

"Why is it taking so long?" Sherlock spat.

"Because no matter how hard you try, you are still human who heals just like everyone else." John said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock growled and tapped his long fingers impatiently on the railing of his bed.

"Do you want me to get you something? Food, coffee?" John growled.

"A case, John, I want a case."

John rolled his eyes just as the door opened. In came Mycroft, followed by Lestrade. Lestrade looked smug about something again.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled.

"The guy you caught, he just confessed, I thought I'd let you know." Simpered Mycroft.

"Of course I knew." Sherlock scoffed, "Why do you think I chased him?"

Mycroft shot him a depraving look, in which Sherlock readily returned.

John looked at Lestrade who shrugged, and nodded toward the door.

"There is no need to make a fuss about it, dear brother."

"A fuss? I caught him single-handedly!"

John took Lestrade's queue and left the room, hearing Mycroft's scoff of distain before closing the door, muffling the sound.

"Sherlock's feeling a bit cooped-up?"

"A bit?" John snorted, "He's going mad."

Sherlock left the hospital the next day, much to John's relief. The cab ride back was a silent affair. Sherlock was disgruntled after his row with Mycroft and John didn't feel like poking the bear with a stick. John began to doze off sitting up. They pulled up to the flat and Sherlock hopped out. John was fast asleep on the seat.

"For god's sake." Sherlock muttered, however he didn't look angry, but bemused. "John!" He poked his flatmate in the side and John jerked awake. He jumped out of the cab with a hurried apology to the driver. They went inside and Sherlock sat down at his usual chair. John collapsed on the couch.

"You look worse than I do." Sherlock noted, "Perhaps you should sleep in your bed."

John covered his face in his hands and sank further into the couch, mumbling incoherently. A smile crawled up Sherlock's face as he watched as John sink further into sleep.

John stirred. He was very comfortable, and didn't want to wake up, but to drift back to sleep. However there was a soft rustling noise and John now registered where he was. He was lying in bed– but not _his _bed. John blinked and woke up completely.

He was looking at the opaque ceiling in a room that was not _his room. _He turned his head and with a jolt, the he was not the only one in bed. Someone else lay curled in a tight ball on the other side of the bed. John saw black curls poking out of the covers, and watched as the form of Sherlock breathed deeply next to him. Somehow, John didn't seem to care that he was in fact _sleeping_ with Sherlock Holmes, and he found that he didn't care if anyone found out about it.

Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes, peaking out over his covers. He gazed as John, sea-blue on musky grey.

"I still fear the abyss." Sherlock whispered.

"You said fear is for mortal men." John commented, "Then I'd much rather be moral, and fear the abyss, then not have you at all."


End file.
